Drabbles of the Bassist as a Young Man
by Space Toaster
Summary: Reuploaded with new format A year in the life of a teenage Murderface. Neglect, self-hate, theft and the beginning of love, all in twelve bite-sized drabbles. Rated for language and VERY mild hints of sexuality
1. January to June

Disclaimer: Metalocalypse and all characters/settings within are property of Brendon Small and not me.

A/N: Murderface's middle name is my own idea.

Drabbles of the Bassist as a Young Man

By Space Toaster

**January 12th, 1992**

"William! Get yer behind in here and take out the trash like I told ya to!"The nasal squawk of his grandma's voice never ceased to grate on him. You could put silverware in a blender and the sound would be more pleasing than listening to Stella Murderface.

The teenager crushed the cigarette butt beneath the toe of his ratty sneaker, hocking and spitting into the brittle grass. It was just him, his bitch grandma and his catatonic grandpa. They lived together in a double-wide mobile home, in a trailer park of course. By Murderface's opinion, the place might as well be named Pisstown, USA. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his gray hoodie and shuffled into the 'house'. Stella's fat ass was parked on the floral-printed sofa, watching soap operas. Thunderbolt sat in his armchair, drooling and staring at nothing.

"Wipe yer feet this time, William." Stella said, not looking from the TV. No matter, the old bag had eyes in the back of her head.

"Yeah, yeah." He muttered, half-heartedly scraping one foot against the 'Welcome!' mat.

He preferred to go by his last name at school. It was a lot more appealing to him than 'William'. Murderface tugged the bag of trash out of the garbage can, hefting it over his shoulder. He made sure to slam the screened door on his way out, despite protests from Gramma. After the trash was crammed into the already overflowing can, he stopped for another cigarette. Stella rained hellfire down on him when she found out he smoked. A few whacks with the spoon wasn't enough to deter him, however. The abyss of his closet was an ideal hiding place for his contraband items, like his Misfits cassettes, smokes and his switchblade, but that was usually in his pocket. He sat huddled by the mailbox, and blew smoke out the gap in his teeth.

**February 20****th****, 1992**It was Sunday, and yet again he refused to go to church. This started when he was thirteen. Two years later, Stella was tired of arguing with him. It didn't stop her from heaping on the guilt, however.

"All right, William, stay here. But don't you blame me when you don't get into heaven!" She waddled out the door, wheeling Grampa Thunderbolt out on his rickety old wheelchair.

"Hnh." Murderface grunted, propping up his feet, clad in holey socks on the coffee table and opening an old issue of Penthouse. "I'd rather die than go to heaven."

**March 3****rd****, 1992**

The sixteen year old paused at the bathroom sink and took a good look at his reflection. His nose looked like he got punched a few times. He had a mass of brown, frizzy curly hair that he refused to get cut. Puberty blessed him with a bad complexion and a fuzzy down on his upper lip. There was also that gap in his teeth. They just grew in like that after his baby teeth, and Gramma didn't have the money for braces. Now anyone who made fun of his lisp earned a hard punch in the nuts.

He scowled at his reflection. "What're you looking at? Ugly bastard..." He muttered before switching off the bathroom lights and going back to bed.

**April 29****th****, 1992**

It was pouring rain outside, and Stella's voice was loud enough to give thunder a run for its money.

"_William Gage Murderface!_ Did you get into another fight?!" She shrieked at the sight of her grandson, soaked, muddy and bloody. His right eye was already starting to swell shut, and there was a light stream of blood trickling out of his nose. The collar of his Alice Cooper t-shirt was torn and his jeans were splattered with mud.

"I got jumped." He muttered, wiping his nose even though the blood just kept coming out. There was a lack of defiance in his voice. It was a mutter of defeat that made her expression soften.

"Well, go get out of those filthy clothes and shower, you're getting mud everywhere!" She snapped half-heartedly. He trudged away into the nauseating pink bathroom for a hot shower and to cram tissue up his nostrils. When he reentered the kitchen, there was a bag of ice on the table. Next to the ice, there was a cup of soup with those little oyster crackers he liked. Stella could feel her grandson's eyes on her, but she kept hers glued to the television.

Outside, the rain was starting to lighten up.

**May 23rd, 1992 **

He was out way past his curfew, sitting in the park with a shoplifted bag of chips. He wasn't worried about being caught; he mastered the art of exiting and re-entering the house without making a peep. A boy close to his age sat nearby, smoking a cigarette. Patting his pockets, Murderface realized he left his own cigarettes at home, only having his lighter.

"Hey man, you got any extra?"

The boy looked at him and nodded, but didn't move to offer him one.

"You want to give me one?"

"I'll want to for some chips." The boy replied, nudging dark hair out of his face.

Murderface handed over the rest of his Cool Ranch Doritos, and received a Newport in return. He lit up while the boy chewed.

He blew smoke out of his gap like a train whistle. "I'm Murderface."

"Nathan." The boy grunted. He stood, tossed the empty bag into the trash, and walked away with his hands in his pockets.

**June 17****th****, 1992**

"I fuckin' hate summer." He was speaking to the broken ceiling fan. He lay on the floor where it was cooler, in plaid boxers. The cheap carpet scratched his skin, and it smelled like he left a bowl of cereal somewhere in the mess. Murderface was about as neat as he was handsome and as neat as he was tired. The answer to all three was the same: Not very.

He picked himself up off the floor and walked out of his room, scratching his rear. The cool tiles of the kitchen floor were soothing. He could hear snores coming from Gramma and Grampa's room. Sometimes he couldn't tell what he hated more, hearing her snore or seeing her chew. Whichever it was, they both made him want to wrap his hands around her neck and shake her.

He was standing in the living room now, staring at Thunderbolt's empty armchair. He didn't remember what Grampa was like before the stroke, it happened when he was two or three. Whenever he asked Gramma, she wouldn't answer. It made him wonder what she was like before the stroke as well. Murderface folded his arms over his chest and went back to bed, curled up under the covers. He felt very cold.


	2. July to December

Disclaimer: Metalocalypse and all characters/settings associated with it belong to Brendon Small and not me.

Drabbles of the Bassist as a Young Man

By Space Toaster

**July 4****th****, 1992**

Murderface switched off the roaring lawnmower and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Sweat drizzled down his back and into the back of his underwear. His shoulders were starting to get burned. He got under some shade in the old porch swing and lit up a cigarette. Down the street he could smell the neighbors cooking hot dogs and playing with sparklers. His grandparents were invited over there, but he didn't want to go. So Stella said he could make himself useful and mow the lawn.

He spat in the grass and lit up a cigarette. Some boys from down the road went by on rollerblades and called out to him.

"Hey Dogface!" They laughed and high-fived each other.

"Fuck you!" He called back.

He was notorious for getting into fights and fighting dirty. There were few boys in that neighborhood who hadn't gotten into a fistfight with him. No girls, however. He wouldn't hit girls, despite his dislike for his grandmother. He punched a girl in the arm once, and she started crying. It really bothered him how bad he felt for it. He told her to stop being a baby and stormed away, trying to hide his embarrassment.

Murderface was not a ladies' man. Whether it was his looks, his reputation or his 'white trash' status, girls avoided him. That didn't stop him from checking them out, although the look they gave him when they caught him would sting.

"Who needs 'em?" He grunted as he put his cigarette out on the arm of the swing, enjoying the smell of burning wood.

He rose up from the porch swing and went inside. There were several pages of women under his mattress waiting for him, and they were always happy to see him.

**August 29****th****, 1992**

Murderface walked into K-Mart, unable to believe he was doing this already. Where did summer go? Gramma gave him some money and sent him to buy some school supplies. He used to actually buy the stuff. It would be a few good whacks with the spoon if he came home with no supplies and no money. Now, he had his own solution. Thank God for brain-dead employees and crappy security. He was also craftier than people would think.

It was August, but he wore a baggy hoodie. He lingered by the notebooks and pencils, pretending to be actually inspecting them if he thought somebody was looking at him. When he was sure nobody could see him, the notebook or set of pencils would disappear inside his jacket. He would snitch a plastic bag on his way out.

Once he was far away enough from the store, he put the notebooks, pencils and whatever else he 'needed' into the bag and walked home. He gave Gramma the change. She asked for the receipt, he patted his pockets and looked through the bag, and said he lost it. She was displeased, but shrugged it off.

Murderface walked into his room, and dug around in his closet. He kept the orange plastic piggy bank well hidden, under a pile of his old stuffed animals and those were hidden by his 'nice clothes'. He took the money that he supposedly spent on the school supplies and crammed it into the bank. It was his secret nest egg. Ever since he saw it in the window at the mall, he decided to save up until it was his. Murderface wanted a bass guitar.

**September 14****rd****, 1992**

The new girl's name was Olive Mordabito. She had a toothy grin, multi-pierced ears, and wore tight faded jeans. Murderface sat behind her for alphabetic reasons. He didn't do much in class, just sat and read comic books hidden behind his textbooks or flicked spitballs at his neighbors. But now he was distracted. She smelled nice, and when she left her seat to sharpen a pencil or write on the board, his eyes were eventually fixated on her ass. He doubted the other guys could blame him, because it was a _nice _ass.

When she came back to her seat, her eyes met his. By the way she smiled he could tell she knew he was eyeing her. She didn't say a word or glare at him, but at the end of the day she pressed a scrap of paper into his hand.

_727-279-5590  
Call me? _

Later that night, he expected it to be a fake number. They pulled that kind of trick on him before. He couldn't quite explain the feeling in his stomach when he heard her voice on the other end of the line.

**October 31****st****, 1992**

Murderface decided to leave the Halloween party early. The music sucked and nobody thought to sneak in any booze. He didn't bother saying 'good night' to anyone. He was a few feet away from the house when a familiar voice called out to him.

"Hey! Hey Will, wait up!"

Only one person he knew called him 'Will' and got away with it. He stopped and turned to see Olive jogging towards him. She wore cat ears and whiskers drawn on her face.

"You're leaving too, huh?" She folded her arms over her chest; it was a little chilly tonight.

"Yeah, the party sucks." He paused to loudly crack his neck. "You, uh, just going home?"

Olive nodded. "Yeah, I live a couple blocks away. Will you walk with me?"

He had a few hours to kill until his curfew. Although, usually he would just walk in, say good night to Gramma and Grampa, wait until they went to bed and sneak back out again. Gramma was a deep sleeper and rarely got up to check on him. He would cram pillows under his covers, just in case she did look in.

"Have you ever seen the movie 'My Cousin Vinny?'" Olive asked arms still wrapped around herself as they walked.

"Nah." If he ever went to the movies, it was with Gramma and she only wanted to see 'chick flicks'. R-rated movies were off-limits, naturally.

"I bought the tape the other day. If you want you can come over and we can watch; it's really funny." She rubbed her upper arms.

"You cold?" He asked, although it was obvious.

"A little."

He moved closer to her and put his arm around her shoulders. It was done a little awkwardly but she didn't comment. She wrapped an arm around his waist to get a little closer.

"Thanks."

Her breath tickled his neck and he had to fight off the goosebumps.

"Don't mention it." He grunted indifferently to keep up appearances.

They walked like that the rest of the way to her house where she thanked him again.

"How about you come over at noon? I'll make lunch." She wrapped her arms around herself again.

He nodded, trying to stay cool and aloof. "Fine…seeya."

"Night, Will." She trotted up the walkway to her house, and naturally he stared at her ass.

It would take a comment from his Gramma to realize he was still smiling when he got home.

**November 26, 1992**

"Don't play with the cranberry sauce if you're not going to eat it." Stella said around a mouthful of food.

Murderface didn't look at her. He knew he would zero in on her gaping chewing mouth and it would ruin what little appetite he had. The diner's Thanksgiving Special was less than decent. The turkey was dry, the stuffing was tasteless. The corn was edible, and the mashed potatoes were fine if you liked them lumpy, which he did. He hated cranberry sauce, though.Olive invited him to dinner with her family. He knew that meant he would have to bring his grandparents too. Of course, he didn't want to explain the many ways they embarrassed him, so he said they were going to see his other relatives.

There was a little voice at the back of his head. _"You could be eating food that doesn't suck. You could be sitting next to a girl that actually likes you."_

He made himself put down his fork. Part of him wanted to bury it in his thigh.

**December 31****st ****, 1992**

This year's Christmas was uneventful. He got socks and an itchy blue sweater with a big W on it. He wore it once to appease Gramma, and then threw it into the back of his closet never to be seen or worn again.

Now he was sitting on the curb with that kid Nathan he met awhile ago. They were sharing a bottle of champagne swiped from the party his parents were having. Neither boy had any desire to sit in a crowded living room watching the ball drop.

"This tastes like piss." Murderface commented, passing the bottle back.

"Have you tasted piss?" Nathan took a swig, finishing it off.

"Fuck no, but there's probably not a big difference…speaking of piss..." He got to his feet and walked over to the nearest bush. Nathan was right where he left him once he was through.

"Did you taste it?" Nathan smirked only to get slapped upside the head.

"Ahh, fuck off…I think I'm gonna head home, that stuff's not sitting well."

"A'right." The larger boy grunted. "Seeya."

"Yeah." Murderface ambled off down the street, feeling light-headed from the alcohol in his system.

Minutes later he was crawling in through his window. He kicked off his sneakers and took off his t-shirt. He stepped out of his jeans when his upset stomach decided it had enough. He managed to make it to the toilet just in time. Murderface coughed and wiped his chin, flushing the Cool-Ranch-Doritos-and-champagne stew down the drain. He rinsed his mouth out before trudging into his room and flopping face down on the bed. He looked at his clock, it read 12:02 AM. Happy Goddamn New Year.

Another year gone and he was still ugly white trash living in a mobile home with his horrible grandmother. He didn't know when, but eventually things would change. He could feel it. There was going to be a day when he would leave all of this behind. Until then…

_"I wonder what Olive's doing today…"_

_((If you liked this and you liked Olive, you're in luck! There's another set of Murderface/Olive-centric drabbles on the way!))_


End file.
